amended with a quick glance at Judith, “I sort of
thought you might have found out his real name.”
“Mr. Mummy!” Judith exclaimed. “His name wasn’t
really Mumford Needles?”
“No,” Woody replied, looking faintly amused. “That
was his working alias. Blanche Van Boeck hired him to
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try to solve the murders before Restoration Heartware
changed its mind and decided to withdraw its takeover
attempt.”
“But,” Renie put in, “I thought Blanche actually
sounded sincere when she expressed regret about the
takeover.”
“She probably was,” Woody responded. “But it was
the only way Good Cheer could survive. It was either
that, or turn the place into condominiums. Dr. Garnett
blamed Dr. Van Boeck for the hospital’s problems. That
was probably professional jealousy. Sister Jacqueline
and Van Boeck were fighting an uphill battle, like so
many other chiefs of staff and administrators.”
“So,” Renie murmured, “that’s why Mr. Mummy—
I mean, Harold Abernethy—checked out last night.
The takeover had happened, his job was ended. No
wonder he was so snoopy. But why was he interested
in us?”
“Harold was interested in everybody,” Woody said.
“He probably went through your things to make sure
you were what you appeared to be. Of course we knew
about his investigation, which was why we agreed,
along with county law enforcement, to keep the lid on
everything, including the media. Blanche, Dr. Van
Boeck, Sister Jacqueline, even Dr. Garnett all agreed
that it was the best way to handle the situation. Given
that Good Cheer is the only orthopedic hospital inside
the city, they felt that publicity should be kept to a
minimum. The main fear, aside from the damage to
Good Cheer’s reputation, was that people who really
needed surgery would be put off and possibly cause
themselves serious harm.”
“But,” Judith asked, “did Harold ever learn the
killer’s identity?”
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317
Woody shook his head. “No. He felt like a big failure. He’s been a private detective for over thirty years,
and he insisted that he’d never come across such a baffling crime.”
Joe shot Judith a rueful look. “The cunning killer
never dreamed he’d come across my dear wife.”
“Now, Joe . . .” Judith began, then turned to Woody.
“What are you going to do about Jim Randall? I know
he’s probably not in any condition to be arrested right
now, but later when he . . .”
Woody was looking remorseful. “Judith, I’m sorry.
The truth is, we have no evidence. Even what’s been
collected before now doesn’t prove Jim Randall was
the killer.”
“What was collected?” Renie asked.
“The containers,” Woody said. “Sister Jacqueline
saved all the containers, including the whiskey bottle.
The fingerprints were smudged, but Sister had the
dregs analyzed. You’re right, the drugs were in the
juice and the soda and the liquor. But what did that
prove? It was impossible to pin down who had delivered them to the hospital, and in the first two instances,
Margie Randall had brought the items to Joaquin Somosa and Joan Fremont. No one paid any special attention to the homeless men being at Good Cheer
because the nuns offer them free medical care.”
“But,” Renie argued, “now you can have the technicians who gave those medical tests testify that they
didn’t give them to Jim Randall.”
“That’s possible,” Woody allowed.
“You can do better than that,” Judith declared.
Woody seemed skeptical. “How?”
Judith turned to Joe. “Could you ID the suspiciouslooking man you saw in the park?”
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Joe grimaced. “Maybe. It was pretty dark.”
Judith nodded. “I’ll bet you can when you see Jim
Randall. But there’s another way.” She looked at
Woody. “If you check Jim’s clothes, I’ll bet you’ll find a
surgical instrument or two among his belongings. He
hasn’t been able to go home because of the snow, and he
wouldn’t risk throwing them away. He couldn’t be sure
that there might not be some residual evidence implicating him. Nor would he have had time to get rid of them
before he went into surgery. I’m told that with transplants, everything happens very fast. Anyway, the medical examiner should be able to match the wounds to the
kind of weapon that killed those poor men.”
Woody winced. “He already has. At least he indicated that surgical instruments might have caused the
deaths. And of course he examined Joe.”
Judith swung around to stare at her husband. “He did?”
Joe shrugged.
“That’s why,” Woody explained, “there was such secrecy surrounding Joe’s hospitalization. In fact,
Blanche hired Joe in the first place because she had an
inkling that there might be some oddball connection
between the hospital slayings and the homeless murders. It didn’t seem like a coincidence that in each instance, the first two pairs of Good Cheer homicides,
and the first two killings in the homeless camp, had occurred within twenty-four hours of each other. Say
what you will about Blanche Van Boeck, she is one
very sharp woman.”
Judith looked at Joe. “Did you know Blanche
thought there was a connection?”
Joe shook his head. “She never mentioned it. All she
told me was that FOPP was concerned about the homeless homicides.”
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319
“So,” Woody continued, “the ME was here last night
in the ICU before Joe was moved upstairs. We’d begun
to put together some theories of our own.”
“That’s who I saw in the ICU?” Judith cried. “The
ME?”
“Probably,” Joe said. “He couldn’t get here until
late, and I had to stay down there until he showed up.
Bringing him to a ward would have raised a lot of
questions. Or so Sister Jacqueline felt.”
“Is that why some of Joe’s medical records were
shredded?” Judith asked. “For security reasons?”
Woody nodded. “Apparently Mrs. Van Boeck felt it
was necessary to keep Joe’s real condition a secret.
Maybe—and I’m guessing—she had a hunch the murderer was on the premises, or at least in the immediate
area. If Joe’s life was already in jeopardy, Jim Randall—or whoever—might not bother to finish him off.
Remember, Jim had undoubtedly seen Joe around the
hospital. Jim may have learned he was a former detective and now a private investigator. Apparently, Jim
never did figure out that Harold Abernethy—Mr.
Mummy—was also on the case, but from a different
angle.”
“Wait a minute,” Judith said, narrowing her eyes at
Joe. “Are you trying to tell me you weren’t at death’s
door?”
“Well . . .” Joe began, but avoided his wife’s incensed gaze. “I wanted to tell that redheaded nurse I
saw in the elevator because she was getting off on your
floor . . .”
“Corinne,” Judith breathed, and glanced at Renie.
“That’s where she saw Joe. Couldn’t she tell me he
wasn’t in extremis?”
“He wasn’t in good shape,” Woody put in. “Really.”
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